


Thank You for the Venom

by poselikeateam



Series: Incubus Jaskier AUs [8]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Coming Untouched, Consensual Sex, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Drugged Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Fluff and Humor, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Getting Together, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Incubus Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Love Confessions, M/M, Marathon Sex, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, No Refractory Period, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Oblivious Jaskier | Dandelion, Outdoor Sex, Overstimulation, POV Alternating, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Praise Kink, Sexual Humor, Succubi & Incubi, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Under-negotiated Kink, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25554805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poselikeateam/pseuds/poselikeateam
Summary: Despite traveling with a witcher for decades, there are a lot of things Jaskier simply doesn't know about monsters. For example, he didn't know incubi have aphrodisiac venom. Of course, he has to find this out in the absolute most unexpected way possible.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Zoltan Chivay & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Zoltan Chivay & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Incubus Jaskier AUs [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778233
Comments: 34
Kudos: 738





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is, obviously, from an MCR song because when I said emo wasn't a phase, I didn't know how right I was

Jaskier is a storyteller by nature. He loves to entertain, and he has never exactly been the type to lead a quiet life. If he doesn’t stop talking, well, that’s just because he has so much to say. It works out in situations like these.

He and Geralt had agreed to meet up in Novigrad after the winter. While Jaskier had fully expected that they’d be leaving immediately, he’d been pleasantly surprised when Geralt deigned to spend the next three days in the city he so hates. Apparently he’d needed to stock up, and had to wait for someone to craft something for him. It’s their last night in town, now, and they’re drinking with Zoltan.

It’s always a treat, drinking with Zoltan and Geralt. The three of them have a great dynamic, and while a lot of the jokes the other two make are at his expense, Jaskier finds that it’s worth it if only because he gets to hear Geralt laugh. 

At any rate, they’re drinking, and Jaskier is telling a story. It’s a very good one, if he says so himself. He’s telling them about one of the many bar fights he’s been in over the years, though this is one of his favourites. 

“So the big brute makes to grab me,” he says, gesticulating wildly, “and I sort of, well, I don’t really know what to _do_ , there’s no time to think and this gentleman _certainly_ isn’t willing to stop and have a rational conversation. It all happened very quickly, so I don’t even know how I managed it, but I got ahold of his arm and sort of, well, bit him.”

Zoltan laughs in that boisterous way of his, aided by the Mahakaman liquor he’s provided. “Like a ploughing feral cat, you are,” he says, clapping Jaskier on the back. 

Jaskier laughs too. Zoltan’s laugh is nothing if not contagious, and it happens to be one of the many reasons Jaskier loves the dwarf’s company. 

“Anyway, so I bite his arm hard enough to break skin,” he continues. “I don’t even know how I did it! But I’m expecting him to, I don’t know, pull away, or yell, or hit me. Only, he doesn’t do any of that! Boys, I am not exaggerating in the slightest when I say the man let out a great, loud groan and came in his pants, right there.”

“You’re taking the piss,” says Zoltan through his laughter.

“Cross my heart!” insists the bard. 

“Never met a man who’s that much of a masochist,” the dwarf says. 

“Say what you want, but it’s true,” answers Jaskier. “Every word!”

“Hmm,” Geralt says. It’s the hum he uses when he learns something mildly interesting, and Jaskier is immediately suspicious.

“What?”

“Nothing,” answers the witcher. Usually, Jaskier would press him, but they are celebrating right now, and he doesn’t really want to fuck with the good mood they’ve got going on at the moment. That doesn’t mean Geralt is off the hook, though.

The rest of the evening, night, and early hours of the morning pass in a haze of booze and friendly banter. The three of them simply _must_ get together more often. Of course, most of the following day is spent nursing a terrible hangover (damn dwarves and witchers for their alcohol tolerance to which a simple human bard could never compare). Thankfully — albeit a touch unexpectedly — Geralt allows him to rest, rather than trying to leave without him. He probably knows by now that Jaskier would follow him, hangover be damned, and only end up a danger to the both of them.

Of course, nursing the hangover to end all hangovers means that Jaskier simply doesn’t have it in him to spark any potential arguments, so he doesn’t get a chance to ask until the following day. If Geralt thinks that it’s left his mind, he is sorely mistaken, and should frankly know better by now.

“So,” Jaskier starts when they’re finally back on the road. “What was that hum about?”

“Hmm?” answers Geralt, presumably just to be a dick.

The bard rolls his eyes. “The night before last, after my _hilarious_ story.”

“It’s nothing, really,” the witcher says again.

“Oh, bollocks.”

“I’m serious. It’s nothing. I just didn’t realise your venom was that strong,” Geralt says, as if that makes any sort of sense.

“What?” is the only reasonable response.

Unfortunately, Geralt does not seem to take it for the expression of utter confusion that it actually is, and shrugs. “Like I said, it’s nothing important.”

“Oh no, no no no, we’re not doing this,” Jaskier says, crossing his arms and stopping in place. They both know by now that Geralt isn’t going to keep going without him. 

“Doing what?”

“You can’t just say something that makes no fucking sense, and then refuse to elaborate!” he insists. 

The witcher squints at him. “What do you mean, makes no fucking sense?” 

Jaskier makes a noise that’s something between disbelieving and outraged. He knows he’s being unreasonable, but he can’t help but be a little frustrated. “I meant what I said. I don’t have _venom_ ,” he says. 

The look Geralt is giving him now is mostly confusion, but there’s something in his eyes that looks just close enough to pity to make Jaskier deeply uncomfortable. “You didn’t know your kind have venom?” 

“I’m sorry, _my kind_?” What the fuck is he talking about? Bards? Viscounts? Neither of those tend to have venom, as far as Jaskier is aware.

“I don’t mean it like _that_. You’re what, a quarter?” Geralt asks. “You’d still have it, even if it wouldn’t normally be that strong.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, slowly and firmly, “I am not fucking around, here. What in the world are you talking about? A quarter _what_?”

There’s a long silence, during which Jaskier’s urge to scream grows exponentially, before Geralt says, “You mean you didn’t know?”

Jaskier actually does scream. He’s frustrated, okay? He has every reason to be, thank you very much. “Know _what_?” he demands.

“You’re part incubus.”


	2. Chapter 2

If he’s being honest, Geralt fully expected Jaskier to be aware of his own bloodline. If he’s being realistic, he probably shouldn’t have. 

It’s not like Jaskier is stupid. The man is a master of all seven liberal arts — something he loves to brag about, but it _is_ quite the achievement, so he has every right. Jaskier is well-educated, a true master of his craft, an actual professor. He’s got enough charisma to talk a fire into going cold, the brains to use it, and the heart to only use it for mischief at worst.

He’s also flighty, airheaded, and a little naive. He tends to see the world in broad strokes, or hyperfixates on the most miniscule details, but never anything in between. He pays attention to what’s important to him, and that isn’t always (or even usually) the most practical. 

Is it frustrating? Yes. Is it endearing? Also yes, when it isn’t putting them in danger. 

The point is that it’s not a stretch to think that Jaskier might not know he’s part incubus. Even if his parents did sit him down and tell him about it, there’s no guarantee he would have listened to them. Besides, he knows Jaskier comes from nobility, and nobles _love_ hiding the more unsavoury elements of their own family trees. If there’s two things he expects from the upper class, it’s scandals, and covering them up. 

It had always been obvious to Geralt, as a witcher. Jaskier has this… aura, he supposes, the same draw that incubi have, only muted. The way he flits from one bed to another, refreshed in an almost unnatural way after a night of passion, leaving stories of a bone-deep satisfaction-cum-exhaustion in his wake, only makes sense for what he is. And how many times has Geralt woken up to find Jaskier had rolled so close to their fire that his hand was in it, skin resting comfortably on the dying embers, unburnt? How many times had his medallion reacted to Jaskier’s escapades when they were in adjacent rooms? 

Still, as obvious as it was to him, he can understand why Jaskier might not know. It’s difficult to have an outsider’s perspective on oneself. And if no one had talked to him about it, how would he even know to look for the signs? Why wouldn’t he assume that whatever he experiences is the norm, if no other option had ever been presented to him?

Of course, now Geralt has to fulfill his sacred role as Jaskier’s companion: damage control.

“Geralt, I don’t like your little jokes sometimes,” says the bard with a glare so strong it might start a forest fire.

“I’m not joking. I thought you knew. Otherwise I’d have brought it up.”

Jaskier scoffs. “You? Bringing something up?”

Raising one eyebrow, Geralt says, “I brought this up.”

“Yes, after I all but forced it out of you,” Jaskier returns.

Geralt shrugs. “That’s fair. Still. You’ve got incubus blood in you.”

Jaskier hums in a very Geralt-esque way, and Geralt doesn’t say anything else. Jaskier can process this in his own time, and Geralt will answer whatever questions he has.

It’s odd, the way silence seems so much more pronounced in Jaskier’s presence. Geralt supposes it’s simply because Jaskier is always making noise, so it’s a bit disconcerting in the rare moments he doesn’t. Perhaps that’s why the silence seems to drag on while the bard gets his thoughts in order. 

When Jaskier starts making noise again, Geralt is prepared for a long and difficult conversation. Oddly enough, it doesn’t happen. The bard simply pulls out his lute and starts messing around with the new ballad he’s apparently been working on, and that’s that. 

The thing is, Geralt knows that they are going to have to talk about this eventually. A large part of him had almost been looking forward to getting it out of the way, but now he knows it won’t be that easy. He waits for Jaskier to bring it up; when he doesn't after several days, the witcher finally starts to put it out of his mind. 

Honestly, Geralt had expected him to say something far sooner, and he’s almost convinced Jaskier’s forgotten about it entirely by time it’s brought up again. It’s been nearly a week since they’d last breached the topic, and it’s very unlike him to let something sit this long. Geralt supposes that it’s a lot to process; after all, there’s no amount of coin on the Continent that would convince him to try to make sense of whatever goes on in the bard’s head. Sometimes, he isn’t even entirely sure that Jaskier himself can accomplish such a feat.

“So,” Jaskier says one evening, unprompted, “explain this… venom to me, will you?”

The witcher sits back against the log behind him, forearms draped over his knees. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, what is it? How does it work?” Jaskier sounds like he’s trying to get information on one of Geralt’s hunts, and the witcher has to suppress a small, fond smile. 

“Incubi feed on sexual energy,” he says. Best to start with the basics and work his way up, he thinks. “The more their partners are feeling, the more they get out of the encounter. That’s why their saliva acts as an aphrodisiac. It enhances pleasure when ingested, whether through the mouth or through contact with the genitalia.”

Jaskier’s face reddens as he bites his lip. “Suppose that’s why bringing someone off orally is so satisfying,” he murmurs.

Geralt shrugs, a bit awkwardly, willing himself not to think about that just now. “Partly. Could be personal preference too. The thing is, when an incubus bites, that aphrodisiac flushes straight into the bloodstream. It works more quickly, and is up to a hundred times more powerful.” 

“Have you ever experienced it?” Jaskier asks. Judging by his expression, Geralt is pretty sure this is one of those times where his mind and his mouth aren’t quite working at the same pace.

“Once,” he answers after a long pause. He’s glad, not for the first time, that he physically can’t blush. 

The bard opens his mouth once, shuts it, licks his lips, opens it again. “And… does it work? On witchers, I mean.”

This time, the question is painfully deliberate. The tension between them is thick enough that it could be cut with a knife. Geralt isn’t usually that great with reading the room, but he knows that he’s at a crossroads, a turning point in their relationship. Under the poorly-feigned offhandedness is an invitation, just hidden enough that they could both brush it off and never speak of it again.

It’s the last thing he wants to do.

“You know,” he says, “I don’t remember.”

Jaskier gives him a hungry look and, carefully, suggests, “Maybe we could find out?”


	3. Chapter 3

The two of them have been dancing around one another, dancing around _this_ , for _decades_ now. The moment they finally come together, a messy clash of lips and teeth and tongues, all Jaskier can think is _finally_. 

Geralt tastes like wood smoke and salt and the rabbits he’d skewered not half an hour past. Jaskier thinks that he’s never tasted anything sweeter. The witcher groans into his mouth, and Jaskier isn’t entirely sure whether it’s due to a similar sense of relief, or the aphrodisiac venom he apparently produces.

“Alright so far, love?” he asks, doing his level best to ignore Geralt’s soft whine as he pulls away. 

“More than,” the witcher rumbles in response. Less than a moment later his mouth is on Jaskier’s throat, his lips and tongue and teeth laving over the skin in a way that makes the bard’s head spin. 

“Thought — _oh,_ thought I was supposed to be the one doing the biting,” he teases breathlessly. He isn’t sure, suddenly, if it was entirely pretense. “Do you still want to try it, darling?”

“Yes,” Geralt answers without hesitation. Jaskier feels it more than he hears it, the way his witcher’s voice comes out muffled against his neck.

Admittedly, Jaskier isn’t quite used to biting someone hard enough to break skin. It takes a bit of coaxing, a few tries, before his teeth sink into the meat of Geralt’s shoulder deep enough to draw blood. He tastes the coppery tang of it on his tongue, and it really shouldn’t be so arousing to him, but Geralt’s always made him feel things he’d never been quite prepared for. If there’s one thing he’s learned in their travels, it’s to take whatever weird shit happens and roll with it.

“Still good?” he asks in a whisper, breath ghosting over Geralt’s exposed skin. 

The witcher nods and kisses him again, and though it takes a good while, Jaskier can pinpoint the exact moment the venom starts to take effect. Once it starts working, it’s surprisingly quick to fully take effect. Geralt’s pupils dilate to the point that they’re nearly round as he pins Jaskier with a hazy, half-lidded gaze. His breathing becomes more laboured, like he’s just come out of a particularly nasty fight. A thin sheen of sweat appears on his body that glistens in the moonlight, goosebumps forming as the cool night air meets his overheated, damp skin. 

Fucking hells, Jaskier really _does_ have venom. 

Something about this is making him feel… powerful. Not in the sense that he has power over Geralt, because they’d both agreed to this beforehand and he would never abuse that besides. It’s more something deep inside him, like a well slowly filling, a thrum of _something_ heavy in the air that bolsters him as it thickens. Can he be affected by his own venom? No, that wouldn’t make sense, he’d have felt this before. 

It’s like… it’s hard to describe, really, though he tries, if only for posterity’s sake. It’s like coming home to a warm hearth and the smell of a hearty stew after a long day. It’s the promise of a bone-deep satisfaction, the realisation of a hunger he didn’t know he had. It’s like that moment after a long day’s toil when you finally stop and start to realise you’ve forgotten lunch, when you’d been too busy to notice before. It’s a deep and all-consuming longing for something, for a good night’s rest after a long performance, for a cool drink on a hot day, for—

Ah, right. He is part incubus, is he not? What could he be reacting to but Geralt’s desires, finally mirroring his own in a raw, open, wanton way? And incubi gather strength from sexual energy, as Geralt had said. It must be the force of it. Somehow, it really hits him in this moment — they’re actually _doing this_. Geralt wants him, and badly. Geralt wants him enough without the venom to agree to trying it out, to fully place himself in Jaskier’s loving hands, to give himself over completely. He _trusts_ Jaskier to an extent that’s almost impossible to fathom.

Jaskier suddenly understands with overwhelming clarity, like he’d been an illiterate man holding a book in his hands, and suddenly gained the ability to read. He understands what this venom is, and just why it exists. His kind — for that’s what they are, and the sooner he adapts to that the better — have a dangerous power, especially if it’s normally stronger than this. Though the thought sickens him, he briefly wonders just how many will abuse it. 

Geralt doesn’t often hunt succubi or incubi, though. Jaskier can think of two, perhaps three instances in which he had, and in every single one he’d let them go. Of course, there are exceptions — there are always exceptions, one cannot paint a whole race with a single brush — but in general, they are not malicious creatures; the witcher had once described them as hedonism incarnate, but not without conscience. Even when they cause trouble, it’s a misunderstanding; when they kill, it is accidental.

Suddenly, he’s horrified at the thought. Can he kill the way pure incubi can? 

“Geralt, my sweet witcher,” he says, cupping the other’s cheek with one hand and looking into his eyes. It looks like it’s taking an extraordinary amount of effort for the witcher to focus. “Talk to me, love. I need to know, is this… dangerous? Could I—” He tries to swallow past the lump in his throat, and continues even though he fails, “Could I hurt you?”

He sees Geralt struggling to form a response past the fire in his veins. If only he’d thought to ask this sooner. Fortunately, the self-control of a witcher is one of the most formidable things Jaskier has ever seen, and Geralt manages to pull himself together well enough to consider. He knows they’re both seeing the same thing in their minds’ eyes, because Geralt will always jump to the worst possible scenario: dessicated corpses, faces twisted in expressions of one final, agonising pleasure. 

“No,” the witcher finally growls. “Can’t drain me. Probably can’t drain anyone. ‘S fine.”

Jaskier knows that’s the best response he’s going to get, and is frankly surprised he’d gotten that much out of the witcher, but he’s glad for it. “Well then,” he says, and finishes that thought by pulling Geralt into another bruising kiss.

It’s like a dam breaking inside of him, flooding his consciousness and setting his every nerve alight with pleasure. Better yet, he knows that it’s _Geralt’s_ pleasure that he’s feeling. It’s different from the way it feels when it’s coming from himself, like the difference between playing his lute and hearing lute music played by another. 

This is definitely something he’ll have to explore more, perhaps try to wrestle a conversation out of the witcher when they’re both in the right mind to do so. Of course, he has far more important things to be focusing on right now. 

“Let me taste you, dear heart,” he breathes against the witcher’s lips, and the broken groan he gets in return almost sets him off right then and there. It doesn’t take much effort to get their clothes off, though he would usually spend a lot more time unwrapping such a lovely gift. Still, they are both more than eager to get to the main event. The most difficult part of undressing is to stop touching each other long enough.

Finally, they’re fully nude, and Jaskier takes a brief, self-indulgent moment to appreciate the sight before him. Geralt is laid out on his bedroll, looking like the kind of painting one might find in a museum or a particularly expensive brothel. Oh, Gods, he wants to taste him, feel him, play him like the finest lute. He wants to give him everything.

It takes a moment to focus his thoughts enough to actually move. There are so many possibilities and desires swirling around in his head that he can’t pick one for a long, torturous moment. It’s then that he remembers that he had all but begged for a taste of the statuesque man lying, willing and pliant, before him. 

So, that settles it. He places himself between those gorgeous, powerful thighs, massaging the tender skin there as he holds them apart with his hands. Gods, if he thought the rest of the witcher was glistening, it’s nothing compared to his cunt. 

Never having been one to deny himself pleasure, he sets straight to his task, licking a stripe from Geralt’s perineum to his twitching cock with the flat of his tongue. Somehow, he’s able to hold the other man’s thighs apart with his own strength, despite the way they flex in his hands. Either Geralt is weakened by his pleasure, or Jaskier is strengthened by it. 

Now is not the time to contemplate anything but the best ways to bring pleasure to his partner, though. He wastes no time in kissing and sucking at Geralt’s cock, pushing back the hood with his tongue, relishing in the way the witcher’s hips twitch against his face. He licks down, dips his tongue into his lover’s cunt, fucking him with it, before replacing his tongue with his fingers and mouthing back up to his cock again. 

He’s never heard Geralt make noises like this. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. If his songs sounded like this, he could make the Gods weep. The thought that this is all for him, that _he_ has caused this… it sends him, quite unexpectedly, over the edge; and, in that same moment, Geralt clenches around his fingers and gushes against his face.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice that there were supposed to be 5 chapters... Honestly, the epilogue felt forced, so I just canned it.

As soon as the venom starts to take hold, Geralt is done for. 

It’s as if his body had been fighting it, but once it started to slip past his defenses, his whole system had just given up and opened itself. By the time they’re nude and lying on his bedroll, he can hardly breathe with the force of the _want_ pooling low in his belly.

Fuck, he’s never been this turned on in his life. Something he’d never admit to anyone (though he’d bet his last coin that Eskel knows, or suspects it at least) is his secret soft spot for trashy, bawdy romance novels. He doesn’t really know _why_. They’re absolutely ridiculous at best, and he spends far more time amused than aroused when he reads them. Maybe it’s because of the whole… _thing_ he’d had, before setting off on the Path — wanting to be a knight, to save people. He’d had a romanticised view of the world that had been beaten out of him with an almost impressive alacrity. No one and nothing is really like those novels, but when he reads them, he can sort of pretend that somewhere, maybe, the world might not be absolute shit.

It’s ridiculous. He’s fully aware of that. It’s also nostalgic, and oddly comforting, and it’s nobody’s business but his own besides.

The point, though, is that the sex in those novels is described in ways that will either make him laugh or cringe, but usually both. Once Jaskier had brought one with him from a bookstore in Novigrad, and Geralt pretended to be annoyed, but after enough mead they were both breathless from laughing at the overdramatic narration. 

_”He slipped his long, refined fingers into her generous love-tunnel,” Jaskier purred. His voice had a forced smooth quality to it that only made it all the more hilarious. Of course, he is nothing if not a performer, and so he even assigned voices to the characters: a grating falsetto for the heroine, and a deep, booming voice for her lover._

_“Her eyes fluttered as he took his fill of her generous, milk-laden bosom, chewing on her soggy nipples with great skill and passion. ‘Be careful, my sweet,’ she demurred. ‘I am yet a virgin!’”_

_Geralt could swear that a bit of mead came out of his nose. “Wait, wait, let’s ignore that he’s chewing on her tits — how the fuck can she be lactating if she’s never been pregnant?” he asked. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling — confusion, mild horror, amusement — but one thing was certain: this definitely wasn’t making him horny._

_“Who knows,” Jaskier answered in his own voice. “Perhaps she has magic tits? Come now, Geralt, this _is_ called ‘The Milkmaid’s Bounty’. I know you probably don’t read this sort of thing often, but this is far from the worst of it.”_

It had been a lot of fun, though they got barely halfway through the book itself before it had just become too much and they decided to move on to less ridiculous topics. 

The reason it comes to mind now is that, well, obviously the way sex is described in those stories is unrealistic at best. He’d always been particularly dubious when a character is described as _dripping wet_ , unless they’ve just come out of the bath. 

Now, though, he is experiencing it for himself. 

Even before Jaskier puts his mouth on him, Geralt’s cunt is so slick that he can feel it dripping into his smallclothes. Everywhere Jaskier touches him is like cool water on his feverish skin, and he wants — he _needs_ more.

There’s a fire raging inside him, burning in his veins and his lungs and his skin. It blows his mind that Jaskier’s venom is this strong. Although, to be fair, there’s a lot more blowing his mind in a much more dramatic way at the moment. Or maybe it’s all intertwined. He honestly couldn’t say.

What he can focus on is the pleasure. Jaskier brings Geralt off once, and then twice more, with his mouth alone, seeming like he’d be happy to keep doing so until the end of time. It’s too much, it’s not enough. He’s overstimulated, coming too fast with no relief in-between, and the venom in his cunt is only making the fire burn hotter. 

It’s a good thing that he’d scouted the surrounding area before the sun went down, and even better that he’s gotten into the habit of casting yrden and setting traps around their campsites. There’s not a snowball’s chance in Zerrikania that he’d be any good in a fight right now. He’s a fucking wreck.

When the bard starts trying to wring a fourth orgasm out of him, Geralt lets out a low whine and tugs at his hair. Thankfully Jaskier gets the message, though the way he licks his lips as his wide eyes meet Geralt’s is _not_ helping him focus. 

“Fuck me,” he growls, and if he weren’t so far gone he’d be horrified at how much it sounds like a plea.

“Yes, Gods, yes,” Jaskier groans, as though he’d forgotten that was even an option. He takes his right hand — the one still wet with Geralt’s slick — and strokes his own prick once, twice, before pressing the head up against Geralt’s hole. 

They’ve been friends for decades, even when Geralt had refused to admit it. Knowing someone for that long, and spending as much time together as they have, it’s damn near impossible to not know each other very well. So Geralt can feel Jaskier hesitating, can hear the question in his mind before the bard actually asks — and, frankly, he doesn’t have the fucking patience for it. 

Hooking his ankles together behind the bard’s back, he digs his heels in, pulling them flush together. They both cry out in unison at the sudden, intense feeling of finally experiencing one another after all this time. Geralt’s breath is coming out in small, hitching sobs, nearly overwhelmed by the smooth drag of Jaskier thrusting in and out of him, the feeling of being so blissfully full. 

He’s vaguely aware that Jaskier is murmuring things to him, kissing every bit of him that he can reach. One hand tweaks at Geralt’s nipples and the other — Jaskier threads their fingers together, and somehow the simple act of _holding hands_ makes this exponentially more intimate, overwhelms the witcher all the more. He only barely registers that he’s coming again, because every nerve in his body is thrumming with pleasure, and it’s too much, and it isn’t enough, and Jaskier just _keeps going_ —

Geralt feels a cool, wet cloth on his face, between his legs — he lets loose a shuddering groan at the feeling, the juxtaposition of soothing coolness and raw overstimulation — and fingers running through his hair. He hears his own name, and then again, more insistent, and cracks open one tired, yellow eye to peer at the worried bard who _actually_ just blew his fucking mind. 

“Are you alright, dear heart?” Jaskier asks, tenderly cupping his jaw now with the hand that had previously been cleaning him off, still petting his hair. 

“More than,” he croaks. His voice is more gruff than usual, which is certainly no small feat, considering the way he normally sounds. 

He can tell that Jaskier wants to talk about this, and maybe he does too, but not now. For now, he’s more than content to share a bedroll, Jaskier lying on top of him as they both get some very well-earned rest.


End file.
